


Call of Duty

by amuk



Series: Hitsuzen [6]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Loneliness, Loss, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What has honour gotten him besides cracked ribs and bleeding arms? The answer to that is not pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> So, instead of giving a whole story, there are three excerpts from a story. I’m a little experimental in this piece because it is hard for me to just write a scene and not give either the background or the whole story. 
> 
> Prompt: 07. knight's honour

  1. start



"Sasuke, this is Haruno Sakura. She is your betrothed." Fugaku glances at his youngest son for a moment before turning to the lady in question. "Sakura, this is Uchiha Sasuke, my youngest son."

 

"Hello," she curtsies, bowing her head slightly at the two. They are still of a higher rank than her and she must not forget that. Catching her father's eye, she offers her hand to her husband-to-be.

 

He's handsome, she can tell that much with his dark eyes and gently ruffled hair. His skin might be pale, even more so than hers, but that just underlies the hidden strength in his body.

 

He is a knight after all.

 

When he doesn't take her hand, his father accepts it and kisses it instead. "A pleasure."

 

It’s a little rude; she tries not to appear miffed. Until the formal ceremony has occurred, any mistake can break the arrangement.

 

(And her father, his eyes boring into the back of her head, is the reason she must not fail.)

 

“It is nice to meet you,” she starts, running through her thoughts for something else to say.

 

( _youmustnotfail)_

 

Her smile slips a little, despite all this, when after an hour he still doesn’t look at her.

 

-x-

 

2\. middle

 

For two months, they play a game.

 

Sakura tries to talk to him, get him to open up. She cooks meals and cleans his room. Flowers are placed in vases and sunlight let in. She tries to ride with him, watch him train, wrap his wounds. The perfect wife, the best friend, the silent watcher, she takes on archetypes and roles and experiments with his possessions.

 

Still nothing gets through to him.

 

He dodges each invitation, steps away from any question, and when she goes to sleep at night, it’s to an empty bed. Any move forward she makes, he takes two back, and sometimes all she does is succeed at annoying him.

 

The only time he touched her was on their wedding night, the only time he looked at her was that first kiss, the only time he spoke without an edge was when he led the way to his room.

 

She hates this absent husband of hers.

 

(And yet, and yet, she sometimes wakes up to find his arms around hers, grip tight, wakes to find her wilted flowers thrown out and a maid entering with breakfast, to actual conversations over dinner.

 

These times are rare and few between and they might just be a dream.)

 

-x-

 

3\. end

 

He gasps. His fingers shakily staunch his wound, the blood slipping out of his fingers and splashing the earth. There are war cries and the smell of burning and broken corpses pile at his feet. Clenching, his right hand tries to grip the sword.

 

There is still a battle to be won, still enemies on the field. His legs shake and his world tilts and still he tries to move forward.

 

He must win today, his honour is at stake.

 

Yet, even as he thinks this, as he raises his sword and moves his feet, he is already falling.

 

He can’t get up, not yet, and lies there for a moment. Someone’s arms is under his stomach and he shifts slightly so it doesn’t dig into his open wound.

 

Getting up is imperative.

 

(and he sees glittering green eyes and an angry snarl, her hand still imprinted on his cheek, something resigned in her tone as he rides away, her figure shrinking, that first meeting--)

 

He needs to get up.

 

(There is a part of him that sighs, and doubts, for what has honour given him besides cracked ribs and bleeding arms.)

 

He still lies there, as the battle gets quieter, his eyes closing as he tries to take in the pain. She’s probably still waiting for him, standing by the door as though he’ll ride back in one piece.

 

(There is a part of him that wonders, just a little, what would have happened had he taken that hand.

 

It’s too late for regrets now.)


End file.
